


Courtship of the Qunari

by buskie



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Courtship, Humor, M/M, Romance, Swords and Shields as a romantic guideline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-07-27 05:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16212353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buskie/pseuds/buskie
Summary: Dorian enlists Cassandra’s help to court Bull the proper way. When that fails, Dorian courts him the Qunari way.





	1. Chapter 1

“Lady Seeker, a moment.”

The hair on the back of Cassandra’s neck prickled up at the cultured, lightly accented voice. She lowered her practice sword and whirled around, leveling her best scowl at Dorian.

He was blatantly unimpressed.

This— _this_ was why Cassandra did not like the Tevinter mage—well, aside from the fact that he was both a Tevinter and a mage. He had no respect for anyone, except perhaps the Inquisitor, and him only on rare occasions.

“What do you want?” Cassandra demanded.

Dorian smiled at her, unfazed by her gruff attitude. She had no idea why the Inquisitor adored him as much as he did. Rhys had a concerning lack of common sense. It was the only reason Cassandra could think why he surrounded himself with a Tevinter mage, an admitted Ben-Hassrath agent, and a Maker damned _demon_.

“I was wondering if you could assist me with a—private matter.”

Cassandra exhaled a disgusted sound through her nose. She hadn't thought Dorian was interested in her—or any other woman, for that matter—but she had apparently misjudged. “Not interested.”

Dorian’s kohl-darkened eyes widened slightly, and then it was his turn to snort. “Not that you aren't a perfectly lovely specimen, but you aren't exactly my—type.” He’d started out strong but by the end he’d faltered and his eyes had drifted to the side, like it hurt him to admit it.

“I did not think so,” Cassandra said, gentling her tone.

“You knew?”

He sounded terrified, but there was an unexpected note of—hope? Relief? Cassandra’s shoulders relaxed further. “I had suspected.”

“You did?” Dorian looked panicked for a moment. “Is it that obvious? Am I—”

“No,” she lied.

Dorian sucked in a breath. His shoulders sagged on the exhale. Despite what a certain red haired dwarf liked to claim, Cassandra was not unkind. “What can I help you with?”

Dorian cleared his throat, pinching one end of his mustache. Cassandra smirked. He looked kind of like the villain from _Swords and Shields_ when he did that.

“Because of my—interests—I am not very experienced in the art of courtship,” said Dorian, haltingly. “Rather, I'm more in the habit of ah—discreet touches. Tactful looks. Hidden rooms.” His hand slid up and away from his mouth to rub at the back of his neck, reminding Cassandra of the commander. “I am interested in exploring different opportunities.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows flew up. “Are you asking me for _love advice_?”

“Well, you read those _books_ ,” said Dorian defensively, waving one hand as if to encompass Varric’s incredibl—y terrible books.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Cassandra spluttered.

“You know, the trash that makes Varric buckets of money.”

“So then ask Varric,” said Cassandra, lifting her sword again.

“You must be joking,” said Dorian, flatly.

Cassandra considered their dwarven ally and conceded the point. He would laugh him all the way back to Tevinter. “Nevertheless, I am—not the best person to be helping you with this.” She fiddled with a loose thread on her sword’s hilt. “I have not—that is to say.”

“Ah,” Dorian said, understanding.

She scowled at him, pointing the practice sword at his throat. For all that it was wood, she could still do a considerable amount of damage with it. “Don't you dare tell anyone. Especially not the dwarf.”

Dorian put up his hands in supplication. “There is nothing to tell, for nothing was said.”

He smiled at her. Cassandra thought Dorian could be kind, too. She lowered the sword and leaned against it. Her cheeks still felt warm, but Dorian didn't tease her. It was possible she could grow to like the Tevinter, though probably not.

“Surely there’s some sort of, I don't know, procedure you've picked up from the book?”

Dorian must be desperate if he wanted to use _Sword and Shields_ as a courtship guideline. He clearly had a misguided understanding of exactly what kind of books these were.

“Well,” said Cassandra, hesitantly. “You could try flowers?”

The look Dorian shot her was as dry as the Hissing Wastes.

“Or not.” _She_ thought flowers were a wonderful gift, though she supposed whoever Dorian was courting probably wouldn't be interested. “Who are you intending to court, anyway? The commander?”

Dorian chuckled. “Cullen? He’s certainly a catch, if you like dashing golden boys with a past. While normally I enjoy a good challenge, I'm not interested.”

“Why not?”

“He's not interested in what’s in my britches.”

Cassandra coughed into her fist, glaring slightly at Dorian. “Your eloquence does you credit.”

Dorian smirked at her.

“The Inquisitor?”

Dorian stared at her for a moment, expression unreadable. The corner of his mouth curled up in a smirk. “No.”

Cassandra folded her arms over her chest. It was just like Dorian to be so dismissive. “And why not? Is he not good enough for you?”

Dorian chuckled, waving a hand. “No, no, it's definitely not that.” He shook his head, still grinning like he was in on some joke.

“Then what?”

“It's not my place to tell.”

Cassandra wanted to push it, but somehow she knew he wouldn't spill. She huffed a sigh through her nose, then said, “Blackwall?”

He snorted in derision. “That bag of fleas? Thank you, no.”

“You can't be interested in Solas.”

Words were not needed to express what Dorian thought of _that_ suggestion.

“Dorian,” Cassandra said, slowly. An idea had just occurred to her, but it couldn't be. “Do you intend to woo the Iron Bull?”

Dorian said nothing, suddenly distracted by a small smudge on one of the many ridiculous buckles on his outfit.

 _Well_. That was unexpected. Cassandra always thought the two of them could barely stand each other. The few times she'd seen them conversing, they'd bypassed all pretense of formality and had gone straight for the underbelly. What had changed?

“I wasn't aware you even liked the Iron Bull,” said Cassandra.

“Trust me, it took me by surprise as well,” Dorian said, his lips twisting into a wry smile. “But there you have it.”

Privately, she thought it was redundant to court someone like the Iron Bull, since he was always ready to proposition the next person to look at him for too long. Perhaps Dorian was worried the Iron Bull would be unable to look past Dorian’s nationality.

“Well, if you wish to court him, perhaps you could buy a gift?” she said, thinking back to the flowers. It was the same concept, at least.

“What do you get someone like the Iron Bull?” said Dorian, face scrunching in thought.

Cassandra could think of several things the Bull would like, though she bit the corner of her lip and instead said, “He seems partial to dragons?”

* * *

Herald’s Rest was a din of noise. The Inquisitor had somehow managed to drag everyone from the inner circle in for a round of ale. Even Vivienne was there, sitting as regal as a tamassaran, frowning down her nose at her mug. Rhys was dragging him, Cassandra, and Dorian to the Hinterlands— _again_ —to chase down some Venatori on Dorian’s claims that they may have information on Corypheus, but in reality felt more like a revenge killing. Bull couldn't blame Dorian. He’d killed his share of Tal Vashoth, after all.

Tal Va-fucking-shoth.

Bull huffed into his drink, turning the small black figurine between his fingers. Well, there was no point in regretting the past.

The Inquisitor was couched between Cassandra and Dorian, laughing at the reddening Dorian. Bull wondered what Rhys had said to make the Vint blush like that. There was nothing to indicate there was anything between the Inquisitor and Dorian, but maybe he hoped there was. Bull just wasn't yet sure which ‘he’ would ‘hope.’

Then Cassandra laid a companionable hand on Rhys’s shoulder and leaned over him to say something to Dorian, and Rhys went even redder than the ‘Vint.

At least that answered his question.

“Whatcha got there, chief?” Krem asked, thunking a full tankard in front of Bull. The ale sloshed over the rim and Bull quickly lifted the figurine out of danger.

“Don't know,” Bull said, handing over the carving. It was a fierce little dragon, wings spread and head thrown back, glimmering gold in the flickering torchlight.

“Pretty little thing,” Krem said, examining the bottom.

“Let me see that,” said Varric, stretching an arm over the table and nearly knocking over Bull’s drink. He’d started early and was already a couple sheets to the wind. Krem dutifully handed it over. “This is Dwarven. Where’d you get this?”

He ran a finger across one intricate wing. “This looks like one of Kasch’s. Clay, probably from Arden's Aruba.”

It was the wistful note to his voice as he carefully examined the intricate designs that made Bull blurt out, unthinkingly, “You can have it.”

Varric’s eyes glinted hopefully when he said, “You mean it?”

“Sure,” Bull said, shrugging easily. “Not mine. Though someone might have forgotten it here. Might want to ask around first.”

Varric beamed at him, cradling the small figurine to his chest. “Thanks, Bull.”

There was something moving in his periphery and Bull looked up in time to see Dorian push himself to his feet. He was turned away, but Bull could see that his ear was red, like he was embarrassed about something. Maybe Rhys pushed him too far—it wouldn't be the first time the tetchy ‘Vint stormed off in a huff for some imagined offense.

“What bug crawled up his ass?” Krem asked.

“No idea.” Bull shrugged, taking a long pull from his drink.

* * *

“Well, that was a spectacular failure,” Dorian huffed.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Perhaps you should have given him the gift instead of leaving it wherever and hoping he’d stumble over it.”

“I—can't do that,” said Dorian.

“Fine,” said Cassandra. It came out harsher than she intended, but no one accused her of being a gentle woman. Dorian didn't look offended, at least, but she exhaled a calming breath and said, in a more modulated tone, “Perhaps you can try to get to know him?”

“You mean, bed him?” Dorian asked. “I told you, I’m looking to court him, not for a tumble—”

Cassandra smacked his arm. He shot her a hilariously offended look, which she ignored. She hadn't hit him that hard. “I mean _talk_ to him, Dorian.”

“Oh,” said Dorian.

* * *

The thing about Rhys Trevelyan was that he had a horrible sense of direction. Even when Cullen patiently explained where he had to go, drawing an exact path on a map and giving him landmarks—“If you pass the rock that looks like a mabari you’ve gone too far”—the Inquisitor inevitably got distracted, led his motley crew into a cave to bash some spiders over the head, and then bounded off to the next adventure, in the wrong direction.

It wasn't that Bull was antisocial. He was the first to buy a round of drinks and the last to leave the tavern at night. It was just that he was also self-aware enough to recognize when someone didn't like him, and the ‘Vint very much did not like him.

Except instead of taking the tree stump Bull had graciously left for him just outside the fire, Dorian sat next to him.

There was a hiccup in the incredibly awkward conversation Rhys and Cassandra were having, before Rhys started up again, louder, shooting glances at Dorian and Bull that he probably thought were discreet. Dorian ignored him. Actually, he ignored everyone, dragging his bread through the thick druffalo stew they were having for dinner.

“So,” said Bull, dragging out the word, feeling a little lame. “How are you holding up? Are your footsies frozen?”

Dorian didn't deign to respond, merely grunted in a way that would make Cassandra proud. There was another beat of silence from the opposite side of the fire. Bull sighed. At least they were providing the others with entertainment. Not the kind he would usually choose, but he was used to being a part of the gossip mill.

“Right,” Bull said. “Has anyone told you how strange you are?”

That, at least, earned a hot glare, but Dorian dropped his eyes quickly, biting his lower lip. It was a really appealing look on him. When he tilted his face back up, his expression was of polite civility.

“It occurs to me, the Iron Bull, that we are not well acquainted.”

He sounded like he was addressing some guest at a formal dinner. Bull leaned back on his hands, purposefully splaying his knees wide.

“My door’s always open if you ever want to rectify that,” said Bull, throwing a roguish wink.

Dorian’s face fell into horrified incredulity. His lips parted and a pretty blush flooded his cheeks. Bull admired the view.

“That’s not what I—ugh!” Dorian leapt back to his feet, nearly toppled his bowl, and stomped off to his tent.

Bull frowned after him. He’d always enjoyed their back-and-forth, but something was different. This wasn't Dorian’s usual disgusted huff; rather, it felt more like Bull had disappointed Dorian.

Well, shit.

Rhys and Cassandra had completely given up on pretending to chat and were now glaring at Bull from across the fire. If he wasn't already feeling guilty, he would be now.

“What? I thought that was where we were going.”

“Bull,” Rhys said, reprovingly.

“Right right right,” said Bull. “Stop glaring at me. I'll make it up to him.”

That got a disgusted noise from Cassandra—whose mind was much dirtier than he realized, _nice_ —but at least Rhys understood what he meant and nodded his approval.

* * *

“What are you and Dorian up to, anyway?” the Inquisitor asked as the Iron Bull carefully levered himself up. He was favoring his left leg; probably his bad knee was bothering him. The Inquisitor poked at the fire with a twig, and the wood crackled and hissed like an angry Varghest.

“Nothing,” Cassandra said quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Rhys lifted a dark eyebrow at her.

Truly the most annoying trait about the Inquisitor was how perceptive he was. When you spoke with him, he focused all his intense concentration on your face, picking up every little nervous tic. Cassandra was not prone to blushing, but even she found herself looking away, neck prickling with embarrassment.

“Are you and he—” the Inquisitor started, then cut himself off.

Cassandra stared blankly at him.

Rhys sighed. “Never mind.”

* * *

Dorian hated the Venatori.

He hated how they were the representatives of Tevinter in the south. He _really_ hated how the Venatori fought, with blood magic and tethered slaves. He did not feel remorse for killing them; rather, he was fiercely glad to. He supposed that said something about him.

Rhys and Cassandra fought together with an ease of dancing lovers; she charged into the Venatori with her shield, he spotted her with explosive arrows. Bull was in the center of the fight, slinging his warhammer around in a dizzying circle. As effective as that move was—brutally flattening unsuspecting victims—it usually left Bull drained and disoriented. Dorian, stationed at the top of a small hill a distance from the battle, tsked and replenished his shield.

“Dorian!”

There was a quiet explosion as the Venatori Cassandra was fighting spiraled into jagged black smoke. Dorian lifted his staff and cursed under his breath. Of course he's had to drain himself to protect Bull. What a ridiculous oversight.

The Venatori—a dark haired man young enough to have been in school with Dorian—triggered the fire glyph Dorian had been standing behind. The Venatori shouted in pain, staggering back. A moment later, Cassandra’s shield cut through the air and slammed into the back of the Venatori’s head.

The silence after a fight always unnerved Dorian. His shoulders heaved as he sucked in breath after gulping breath, staring down at the fallen Venatori. From this angle, the back of the Venatori’s head looked like he could have been Aemilus. Or possibly Camillo.

“That’s the last one,” said Rhys, jogging up the hill to cheerfully loot the Venatori’s pockets. Dorian turned away.

Bull stomped up the hill toward them, warhammer resting on his shoulder. “What the hell were you waiting for, a written invitation? Why didn’t you kill the bastard?” he demanded, hard eye glaring up at Dorian. It was strange to look down at him from his place at the top of the hill.

Far from being offended by Bull’s gruff attitude, Dorian preened. Concern, he had to believe, was a good sign. “Why, Bull, I didn’t know you cared.”

Of course it was impossible to fluster _the_ Iron Bull. He grinned at Dorian, but his eye glittered strangely. “Couldn’t bear the thought of something so pretty damaged,” he said, probably because he couldn’t help himself.

Dorian turned away before that keen eye could pick up his flash disappointment. Behind him, Cassandra let out her usual disgusted grunt. Dorian found himself agreeing with the sentiment completely.

* * *

There wasn't much opportunity on the road to have a private conversation. The last leg of the journey to Skyhold was proving difficult; there had been a blizzard recently, and the humans of the party were up to their waist in snow. At one point the ‘Vint got frustrated enough to melt the trail away with a showy burst of flame from his staff, which was a brilliant idea, except then, of course, the melted snow immediately froze into an icy death trap. Dorian had sighed and covered it again with a small, sulky blizzard.

The one time Bull turned to Dorian to apologize (though he wasn't certain about what he was apologizing for), Dorian was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't even respond when Bull tried calling to him.

It wasn't that Bull was oblivious, former Ben-Hessrath and all. He knew Dorian was up to something. He just wasn't sure if it was a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ something. But he felt—dissatisfied at how things went down the night before, and then again after the fight with the Venatori. The hell of it was, he _had_ been concerned for Dorian, but instinct had got the better of him and he’d dropped a line before he thought better of it.

He fell into step beside Dorian, folding his arms behind his head. Dorian didn't even look irritated when he shot a quick glance up at Bull, just considering, which was another thing to mull over.

“You know how I became a Ben-Hessrath?” asked Bull. Dorian cocked his head towards Bull, though he didn't lift his eyes from where he was carefully navigating through the deep snow. “It was because I didn't eat my vegetables.”

That got Dorian’s attention. Bull put out a hand, steadying him when he nearly stumbled in a deep patch of snow.

“What are you talking about?”

So Bull told him about how his Tama refused to let him up from the table until he finished two more items from his plate and how he’d placed two pieces of meat he'd snuck into his pocket onto the plate before eating them.

“—so Tama decided I'd be better suited as a Ben-Hessrath instead of a soldier,” Bull admitted. “Because I was a liar.”

Dorian’s teeth flashed under his mustache in a grin. It was fleeting, but it warmed his eyes. “That's adorable.” His voice was warm with laughter, and something in Bull’s chest warmed in response.

* * *

“I saw you chatting with the Iron Bull on the walk back,” Cassandra said, taking the seat next to Dorian.

Dorian snapped a look at the small crowd against the far wall, but Bull was too busy laughing with the Chargers to listen in on Cassandra and Dorian’s conversation. “Yes,” Dorian said, his voice low.

Cassandra tried to wave down Cabot, but he was busy with a knight at the end of the bar. Dorian offered her his drink, which she took only after a moment’s hesitation. “You sound disappointed. Shouldn't you be happy? It is progress.”

“Right, but—is it enough? Does he truly understand what I want?” Dorian twisted the ring on his middle finger, sneaking a glance back at Bull. Bull had his head thrown back, booming a laugh about something Krem said. The corners of his eyes tightened wistfully.

Cassandra offered the tankard.

He took it, drained half the offensive beer in one cringing gulp, and set it down with a hard _thunk_.

“So, what next?” asked Cassandra, a little excited. She wouldn’t dare to admit it, but helping Dorian woo the Iron Bull was just the sort of romantic plot she loved.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” sighed Dorian, picking up the tankard again.

Cassandra searched the tavern for inspiration. “You could—cast yourself upon his chest?” she said, a trifle dubiously. It seemed to work for the women in _Swords and Shields_.

Dorian’s head shot up. “I will not—” he gasped, loud enough to catch Krem’s attention. Blushing slightly, he lowered his voice and said, “No.”

“It works in the books,” said Cassandra, smirking a little.

“ _No_.”

She tucked away the idea for desperate times, frowning at his tankard. “Buy him a drink?”

For a second, Dorian looked like he was going to protest again, but then his expression became thoughtful. He handed the tankard back to her, got to his feet, and set about trying to get Cabot’s attention. She watched, with interest, as he pointed at Bull, words washed away in the din of voices. Then his eyes widened in comical panic when he noticed Krem watching him curiously, and he broadened his movement so that his hand swept around the entire tavern. Cassandra pressed her lips together, feeling a laugh bubbling up in her chest.

“That was well done,” said Cassandra seriously, when Dorian dropped back into his chair.

Dorian sank his head into his hands. “Oh, shut up.”


	2. Chapter 2

“‘—and she cast herself into the waiting arms of her true love.’ See?” said Cassandra, striking the book with the flat of her hand. “It works.”

“I admit that there seems to be an unusual success rate,” said Dorian, dubiously. “I’m just not convinced it will answer.”

They were pressed shoulder to shoulder in the small loveseat in the library, two dark heads bent together over the pages of _Swords and Shields_. Early morning sunlight streamed in through the window above the seat, limning the pages in gold.

“You will never know unless you try,” Cassandra insisted.

Dorian held up both his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! I’ll try your foolish scheme, though I assure you it will only end in blood and tears. My blood and my tears.”

Cassandra sank back into the couch, satisfied. “How is courtship handled in Tevinter?” 

Dorian ran his finger along the edge of the book, lips pressed together in thought. “It’s—not. At least, not like this.” He waved a hand at the book, smiling wryly. “And certainly not among the Altus.”

“Ah.” Cassandra understood. She smiled back, equally wry. “Were you betrothed?”

“Yes. You?”

“They tried,” said Cassandra, darkly. Dorian did not need to ask for clarification to guess exactly how _that_ ended. “And how did you handle your own affairs? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“With great discretion,” said Dorian, leaning back into his chair with a small sigh. “Unfortunately for me, I don’t think the Iron Bull knows the meaning of discretion.

The corners of Cassandra’s mouth quivered, like she was holding back a laugh. Dorian thought that if she let herself laugh once in awhile, she would be quite devastating. She was already beautiful beyond the ordinary way, but far too stern for someone so young. Cutting loose would be good for her.

“Am I interrupting?”

“In-Inquisitor!” said Cassandra, leaping to her feet. “No, of course not. I was simply helping Dorian—” she faltered, unwilling to give away Dorian’s secret, but clearly not knowing what else she could possibly be helping him with.

“The Lady Seeker was kindly assisting me with research,” said Dorian, smoothly. Between one moment and the next, he’d made _Swords and Shields_ disappear.

Rhys’s normally amiable expression had become unreadable. His eyes darted from Cassandra, to Dorian, and back to Cassandra. “Research, huh? Well, I’m glad the two of you are getting along so well.”

Dorian’s lips curled into a knowing smile, especially when he noticed the red crawling up the back of Cassandra’s neck. He sprawled back into the couch, posing in a way that he knew was highly provocative, and was satisfied to see something like jealousy flashed across Rhys’s face. He _knew_ it. Poor, bumbling fool. Did he not know he simply needed to smile and the dear Lady Seeker would go all the pieces?

“Did—did you need something, Inquisitor?” she asked.

“I was just looking for you,” said Rhys, staring deeply into Cassandra’s eyes. If only Varric were here, he’d have _so_ much material to work with. “I’m off to the Hinterlands.”

“So soon?” said Cassandra, fretfully.

“We _will_ miss you,” said Dorian, impishly.

Although Cassandra didn’t seem to know about Rhys’s interest, she was sharp enough to pick up when Dorian was taking the piss. She aimed a backward kick against his ankle, and Dorian stifled his pained yelp and surprised laugh behind his hand.

The hard panes of Rhys’s expression softening slightly. “It should be a short trip. Just a week.”

Cassandra nodded.

There was a long, awkward silence.

“Did you need anything else?” asked Cassandra, uncertainly.

“Uh,” Rhys said, clearly at a loss.

Dorian, unable to watch this for a second longer without rupturing something from suppressed laughter, quickly jumped to his rescue. “Do bring me back some Sun Vint-1 if you get a chance. I’ll pay you back.”

“Right! Yeah. Sure.” Rhys looked back at Cassandra, smiling hopefully. “Did you—did you want me to bring you anything?” 

“I do not require anything at the moment.”

Rhys’s face fell slightly. 

Dorian didn’t quite drop his head into his hands, but it was a near thing. “Right okay,” he said, taking pity on them both. “Thank you very much, dear Inquisitor, safe travels, et cetera et cetera. Run along now.”

“Dorian,” Cassandra hissed, scandalized at how rude he was being.

Rhys, on the other hand, exhaled a relieved sigh for the out. He shuffled a couple of steps toward the door. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you two in a week.” And, with a backward glance, their intrepid Inquisitor scrambled out of the library.

Cassandra watched him go, the corners of her lips tipped up, but a familiar line had creased between her eyebrows. 

“So!” Dorian clapped his hands together. Cassandra startled slightly, then glared at him. “About me casting myself into the Iron Bull’s arms. Why don’t we discuss logistics over some ale?”

He was being painfully transparent in his attempts to distract her, but Cassandra’s glare softened slightly, and some of the concern faded from her eyebrows. He supposed it was worth the hit to his ego.

* * *

Bull rolled his neck, popping the bones with a relieved grunt. Krem didn’t pull his fucking punches, but the guy _still_ left his left side wide open, no matter how many times Bull knocked him down. By the time they were done practicing, then sun had already sunk beyond the horizon, dipping the world into that hazy gray of dusk.

He made his way to the Herald’s Rest, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe he could get Stitches to give him one of his foul tasting potions. He smirked to himself. Or maybe he could ask the ‘Vint to give him a neck rub. He just bet those hands of his were magic—

He stopped. Dorian and Cassandra, who were just leaving the tavern, also stopped. The door to the tavern swung shut behind them, abruptly cutting off the warm glow from the fire and the chatter from the patrons.

“Hey,” said Bull. “I was just thinking about you.”

Dorian glanced at Cassandra, who gave him a subtle nod. The ‘Vint sucked in a breath through his teeth and bent his knees, lowering his center of mass, like he was preparing to attack. Bull took a step back. With Bull’s history and highly localized training, so to speak, the mage didn’t stand a chance against the ex-Ben-Hessrath, but Bull could think of at least three people who would have very strong words with him if he injured the ‘Vint, even if it was the ‘Vint who attacked first.

Besides, he didn’t actually want to hurt the guy.

“You’re drunk,” Bull informed him.

“Yes,” said Dorian, seriously. Then he launched himself at Bull.

Bull dodged easily. Dorian stumbled, hands shooting out in front of him, but didn’t fall.

“ _Fasta vass!_ Stay still,” Dorian snapped, stomping one foot. A little flame bounced over the toes of his well-kept leather boots, which took away some of the childishness of the action and reminded Bull that he was dealing with a powerful mage. One who, apparently, didn’t have complete control of his magic at the moment.

“I don’t think so,” said Bull, taking several steps back, his hands lifted. “Why don’t you head back to your rooms and sleep off your drink, big guy?”

Dorian jumped at Bull. Bull dodged. Dorian jumped at Bull again. Bull ran to the other side of the courtyard.

At the doors of the tavern, there was the choked off sound of someone trying very hard not to laugh. Bull glanced over at Cassandra, who was covering her mouth with her fist. There was a familiar crackle of magic and a perfect snowball formed in the palm of Dorian’s hand. He hurled it at Cassandra’s head. It went low, catching her on the shoulder, and Cassandra burst out laughing.

Bull folded his arms over his chest. He _definitely_ didn’t appreciate feeling out of the loop. You didn’t just lose your Ben-Hassrath training just because you became Tal Vashoth, but Bull had _no idea_ what Dorian was playing at. “Did you want to train? Is that it? We can train if you want, big guy. When you’re sober.”

Dorian stared up at Bull, expression slowly falling into overexaggerated dismay. He glanced over his shoulder where Cassandra was still beside herself with laughter, before he flung up both his hands and cursed, long and loud, in Tevene.

“Dorian—” said Bull, impatiently.

“Never mind!” Dorian snapped, and stormed away.

* * *

“You can stop laughing now,” huffed Dorian as he and Cassandra walked through the courtyard, leaving Bull behind to scratch the back of his head.

“I can’t,” Cassandra informed him, wheezing slightly. She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat, and then she was off again.

Dorian sighed, but the corners of his own mouth twitched, and then he was laughing, too. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the sheer ridiculousness of the situation that was suddenly so hilarious. Likely some combination of the two. Cassandra propped herself up on his shoulder, laughing harder than Dorian had ever heard. It was a wonderful sound. He found he didn’t even care that it was at his expense.

“What _was_ that?” gasped Cassandra, wiping the corner of her eye with the back of her hand.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder, but Bull has already entered the tavern. “The book said to ‘cast myself into his arms’.” He thrust out one hand to demonstrate, causing them both to stumble. 

“Dorian, you looked as if you were going to throttle him!”

“I was throwing myself at him! If you know any other definition of ‘cast,’ please let me know, because I am clearly missing something.”

“I suppose casting yourself at someone is a bit much to spring on the unwary,” said Cassandra, thoughtfully.

“He probably thinks I’m mental.”

“Likely,” said Cassandra, with far too much enjoyment than the situation required, in Dorian’s opinion.

Dorian heaved a full body sigh. “I’m going to go weep into some Antivan brandy in the privacy of my room. Can you make it back to your rooms by yourself?”

Cassandra thumped his arm, as if to remind him that he was talking to a first class warrior. He let out an over-exaggerated yelp and rubbed where she punched him, shooting her a wounded look.

“Can I make it back to my rooms by myself,” she repeated, jabbing a finger at his face and nearly taking out his eye. 

Dorian leaned back. “You are welcome to come back to my rooms to weep into some Antivan brandy with me, if you would like,” he said, mostly because he had a feeling if she did try to walk back to her rooms by herself, he would find her the next morning, frozen to a training dummy. Cassandra could put away a considerable amount of alcohol, but she did not have his extensive training and had made the mistake of trying to keep up with him.

Cassandra’s finger wavered, then she dropped it onto his shoulder to steady herself. “Yes,” she said, seriously.

She hadn’t even had a sip of the brandy before she passed out on his bed, one hand curled under her cheek, looking softer in sleep than Dorian thought possible. Dorian sprawled out beside her, with enough distance for the Maker between them, but probably not enough for him to escape an arrow through the head of Rhys found out about this cozy picture.

Dorian considered the slowly rotating ceiling. Cassandra was rapidly becoming a much better friend than he’d had in a long time. He really should help her navigate her relationship with the Inquisitor. Maybe if _Cassandra_ tried throwing herself into the Inquisitor’s arms—

He puffed an irritated breath. Oh, who was he kidding. At the rate he was going with his own affairs, any advice he gave would likely result in her driving Rhys into the waiting arms of the local barmaid.

* * *

By the time one week slipped into the second with no sign of the Inquisitor, Cassandra was a complete bear to be around. Unfortunately, as her closest friend, Dorian was suffering the brunt of her worry. No matter how many times he reminded her that ‘one week’ usually meant ‘one month’ to their wandering Inquisitor, she still insisted on fretting herself into a brooding distraction. On day three into week two, while Cassandra was busy taking out her worry and fear on Blackwell, Dorian hid in the garden. 

Of course, it was just his luck that Bull was there, seated at the chess set, a contemplative expression on his face.

For a moment, Dorian was frozen by toe-curling humiliation. What with preventing Cassandra from charging after their missing Inquisitor and generally avoiding the tavern completely, this was the first time Dorian had seen the Iron Bull since his ridiculous attempts at throwing himself into Bull’s arms. At the time, he had been drunk enough that it had seemed like a good idea, but not drunk enough to forget it completely.

Deciding the best defense was to pretend like he _had_ forgotten about it, Dorian took the seat across from Bull. Bull’s eye fixed on him immediately and he smirked. Before he could open his mouth to tease him, Dorian said, while studying the chessboard, “Surprised to see you somewhere other than the tavern or the training grounds.” 

“That a comment about my intelligence?” Bull asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Dorian wondered why he could never manage to say the right thing to Bull. Their contentious history certainly didn’t help. In the past, he’d certainly made an unfair dig or two at Bull’s intelligence. He sighed. At least he hadn’t brought up Dorian’s drunken attacks. “Just about your location.”

Bull quirked a grin at him. Dorian quickly dropped his eyes back to the table, lest his face give him away. “I see you’re at a draw.”

“The Commander is a worthy opponent,” Bull said, resetting his side of the board. Taking his cue, Dorian followed suit. “You play?”

“Casually,” said Dorian. Since he was white, he made the first move. 

“Chess was used for tactical training in the Qun.” Bull moved a pawn. “How did you learn to play?”

“There were chess tournaments conducted each quarter at one of the many, many Circles I was sent to. It was taken very seriously—likely due to the ‘friendly’ wagers our parents would put on us,” said Dorian, subtly palming one of Bull’s pawns. “As a result, I decided to become very good at it.”

Bull considered the board thoughtfully, but Dorian thought he saw an amused crinkle at the corner of his eye. He moved a piece. “Did you win any?”

“Oh, loads,” said Dorian, loftily. Then he frowned at the board. One of his knights was missing. Dorian hadn’t even noticed Bull’s slight of hand, and he’d had years of practice catching cheaters. Bull was _good_. “I won my father a sizeable amount of money the year I was there. One of the few things I managed to get right.”

“How many Circles did you attend?” 

“I stopped counting after five,” said Dorian. He shifted his foot, knocking a small pebble into the flower bed beside them, and when Bull glanced at it, Dorian stole one of his rooks.

“That a ‘Vint thing? Send your mage kid to as many Circles as possible?” Bull moved his other rook. Somehow, in the process, one of Dorian’s pawns disappeared.

“More like a ‘me’ thing,” said Dorian, sighing slightly. In one smooth movement, he moved his remaining knight and stole one of Bull’s bishops. “It may shock you to learn that I was not well-liked amongst my peers.”

“It doesn’t, not really,” said Bull, and Dorian felt a small stab of hurt at his words, but when he looked back up at Bull, his expression was warm. “You’re not like any other Altus I’ve met before. Too—independent.”

Dorian ducked his head to hide the sudden, pleased blush, then pursed his lips together. Bull had stolen his remaining knight.

“As it turns out, my instructors agreed with you. I was booted from that Circle for being too unruly. Well,” he considered for a moment, palming two of Bull’s pawns in the process, “that and the unfortunate duelling accident. Though I maintain that it was not _my_ fault that Augustus couldn’t form a proper shield if his life depended on it.”

“I always figured you were a problem child,” said Bull, and maybe it was Dorian’s imagination, but was there something in his tone? 

Then Bull’s eye widened. “Is that the Seeker?”

Dorian _knew_ it was a trap, but he still instinctively looked over his shoulder. Of course there was no one there. He turned back to the board. Three of his pawns and one knight were missing, and Bull’s king had somehow migrated to the other side of the board.

A laugh bubbled up in Dorian’s chest, but he swallowed it down and pretended not to notice the missing pieces. There was a telling sparkle in Bull’s eye, but his expression was carefully neutral.

In response, Dorian blatantly stole Bull’s queen.

Bull’s serious expression broke and he cracked a grin, just for a second, before he cleared his throat and moved his king. “Check.” 

The board was nearly empty, but neither of them had captured any pieces.

Dorian stole Bull’s king.

A crack of delighted laughter escaped from Bull and he rubbed his hand over his forehead. Dorian grinned hugely, ducking his head. His chest felt like it was about to burst. 

“You’re too fucking much, ‘Vint,” said Bull, getting to his feet. He dropped his hand on Dorian’s shoulder, just for a second. “Let’s do this again.”

“Anytime,” said Dorian, a little dazed. His skin tingled where Bull touched him. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, smiling down at the chessboard, before Cullen entered the garden. “Ah, Dorian. My meeting ran short, so I was hoping to challenge the Iron Bull to a rematch—what in the name of the Maker?” He stared down at the board in shock. “Where did all the pieces go?”

That was too much for Dorian. He dropped his head into his hand, knocking over his king with his elbow, and burst into helpless laughter.


End file.
